


On The Verge

by wreckofherheart



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes you endure nightmares. About rainy days, and spaceships flying away; or dark masks and scarlet lightsabers which burn your insides. And sometimes you dream, about blue and white and a friend. Sometimes you dream of nothing at all. And sometimes you don’t even try.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Sometimes, you stay awake, guarding what little you own, weapon pressed to your chest.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Verge

     You’re five-years-old, and you’re a small thing; hungry and alone. The last time you ate was nearly a week ago. You’re five-years-old, desperate and about to die, and your fingers and palms blister from the ferocious heat, the metal you cling to, hoping to sell. You’re five-years-old, and you come across an abandoned ship, and it’s one of the best days of your life. Treasures are hidden within, and you’re able to feed yourself for months.

     Nothing necessarily led you to the ship. That’s all you know.

 

 

 

     You’re seven-years-old, and a boy tries to snatch your food. He has funny, pointed ears and a big grin, and you don’t like him. He snatches the only food you have for the week, and you yell at him. Your feet slip in the sand, and you fall flat on your stomach. You hear his laughter. But you can’t quite admit defeat. Your sore arms push you upright, and you imagine him tripping over thin air. A comical image, one which makes you chortle.

     Then he does just that.

     An invisible force trips him up, and the food goes flying out of his hand.

     It’s more shock than humour which keeps you in place, until your senses come thundering back. Scrambling to your feet, you hurry over, take your food before he can, and dash out of sight.

 

 

 

     You’re eight-years-old and an elderly lady tells you about the mythical legend: Luke Skywalker. She tells you about his defeat, and then his eventual return to destroy the Dark Lord Vader. His destruction of The Empire, and The Sith’s welcomed disappearance. She tells you about The Dark Side, about mutated soldiers who wear black robes, and suffocate anything within their path. She tells you about Darth Sidious, his ugly face, and his tragic power. 

     It takes you at least six weeks before you’re able to sleep again.

     Then, you meet her again, and you’re busy scrubbing away at a disk you discovered beneath the sand. She tells you more stories, but this story is about the great Master Yoda. A little man, but his height was not to judge his power on. You find yourself smiling at the thought of a small man waving around a lightsaber, and how that could be true. How could something so tiny, so fragile, own such a brilliant mind?

 

 

 

     You’re ten-years-old, and lonelier than you have ever been. And you settle in that: isolation. That is who you are, and it is how you are. Small. Unwanted. Unloved. You’re past the point of crying about it now. You don’t really have anything to weep over. You were left, stranded here as a baby, promised your family shall return, and it’s been so long, and you just–– _let it be_. You’re ten-years-old, some would say too young, but you’re old enough to know that you will stay on this planet, this dry, disease-ridden land for decades. You accept that and keep going.

     You’re ten-years-old, and you’re stronger than normal, but you don’t know that; you’re alone. There isn’t anybody to point out the fact that your skinny arms shouldn’t be able to carry something twice your size. So you don’t think about it. You scavenge for treasures, for rare materials, and food. You bring the heaviest of tools to the shop, and people stare and gawk and you don’t know why. You can carry heavy things, and it’s nothing.

     But it is something.

     Something aids you; something you can’t see and won’t know about for many years.

 

 

 

     You’re thirteen-years-old, and the nights are so cold you shudder and moan. A gang try and ambush you as you leave a village, and they pull at your shredded clothes, your hair; they grab the pretty necklace you wanted to keep for yourself and little beads shatter everywhere. One gang member tries to grab for you, and you slap his wrist away, terrified and upset and so _angry_ , and you tell him, shout––

     ‘Don’t do that to me!’

     ––and he stops, blinks, and says, ‘I will not do that to you.’

     His friends look at him, puzzled, and he turns to each of them, telling them to stop. To leave the girl alone. 

     They drop your body into the sand, and leave, empty handed.

     You cry, alone and shuddering and half naked, and you never think back.

 

 

 

     You’re fourteen-years-old, and, for the first time in your life, someone gives you food––and there isn’t a catch. Her skin is more red than pale, and she has really nice purple eyes, which intrigue you. But you snatch the food, and walk away. You don’t say thank you, not even a smile. You find it easier not to associate yourself with anybody. The best way is the lone way. 

     The food tastes good. 

     Warm food, fruity––you have never had fruity food before, and you sleep well that night. 

     She appears again, and passes you a storybook, with pictures inside. The pages are turned and slightly ripped, but it’s legible. She sits next to you, and reads the storybook too, and after a few minutes, you realise she’s a mute. So, you just smile at her, and she smiles back, and leans her head on your shoulder and you widen your eyes, confused. What is she doing? Leaning on you as if you’re a piece of wood? As if you’re some inanimate object?

     You nudge her away. She gives you a funny look: you’ve upset her.

     Oh.

     It’s weird. Upsetting somebody. But you’ve never had the opportunity to upset; this is the first time you’ve actually been around someone in such a civil manner.

     You like it, you decide. So you let her lean against you again. And it’s okay.

     The storybook is about Luke Skywalker, and his blue lightsaber looks awesome on the page. You read about his adventures with Han Solo, and the Princess. And it’s so exciting and fun. You can’t believe something like this could have happened. A Jedi, a Captain and a Princess saving the Galaxy. The girl pushes the book to your chest; she wants you to keep it.

 

 

 

     You’re fifteen-years-old, and survival is routine. 

     Sometimes you endure nightmares. About rainy days, and spaceships flying away; or dark masks and scarlet lightsabers which burn your insides. And sometimes you dream, about blue and white and a friend. Sometimes you dream of nothing at all. And sometimes you don’t even try.

     Sometimes, you stay awake, guarding what little you own, weapon pressed to your chest. 


End file.
